


Hit the Spot

by pherryt



Series: Clint Barton Bingo [11]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Archery, Attempted Assault, Book Club, Books, Coffee Shop, College AU, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Panic Attack, Past Abuse, Vet!bucky, alternating pov, coffee shop AU, deaf!Clint, past self harm, student!bucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2020-09-25 05:48:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20371714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pherryt/pseuds/pherryt
Summary: Clint's an Ex-Carnie, highschool drop out who can barely read, working in a coffee shop on the night shift.  Bucky's a disabled vet going to college, becoming a night time regular at the cafe when his nightmares keep him awake.Somehow, they form a bookclub.  Clint's best friend Nat and Bucky's therapist would both be so proud...





	1. Book Clubs and Hot Cocoa

**Author's Note:**

> Coffee Shop AU for the Clint Barton Bingo  
Panic Attacks for Winterhawk Bingo
> 
> This is my first ever, straight up AU for Marvel so I'll admit to some nervousness here. Alternating POV's delineated by line breaks.  
Anyway, there are more chapters to come but I'm fairly positive this can nicely be read as is.
> 
> i have a week to finish my Clint Barton bingo card - and i have 3 stories (that includes this one) and 2 one page comics that are all in various states of progress that will hit a number of those squares so i'm HOPEFUL i'll get THE ONES I'VE STARTED done.
> 
> if i can do that, it will leave me with only 3 squares unfinished and i just... don't know what will happen with those. i'm gonna concentrate on the stuff that I've already made progress on.

Clint enjoyed working in a coffee shop, don’t get him wrong - surrounded by the heavenly scent of absolute ambrosia, access to that sweet nectar at any time of day or night even if it wasn’t completely free (employee discount, hells yeah! At the rate he drank coffee, coffee shop job or no, he was saving _tons!_) and he generally was an easy-going person, loved talking to people – but customers were another species all their own.

He wasn’t really sure they were people.

In fact, in typical Clint Barton – ex-carnie, high school dropout – fashion, he might have run his mouth off at a few particularly offensive customers once or twice – because he always reacted before he thought.

Nat had sighed and switched his shifts for him after the tenth complaint in three days to the shift with the least interactions possible. Which was how he’d come to be working nights with _a lot _of downtime.

Which, actually, was good.

It freed up his days to offer archery lessons at the local college – his one true passion and skill – and for the first time in his life, Clint was gaining a steady little nest egg.

And as boring as the night shift was, it didn’t take long before it became Clint’s favorite part of his day.

That would probably, maybe – just might – have something to do with one of his early morning regulars: absolutely gorgeous with a scruffy face (that Clint _hasn’t _daydreamed about kissing, nosirree), hair longer than Clint’s currently was and gray-blue eyes, usually in a dark hoody and skinny jeans, and always looking thoroughly and deliciously rumpled.

Mr. Rumpled would appear out of thin air about 2am, order a coffee and a pastry then hole up in the booth all the way at the back of the café with his backpack. He would finish the coffee and nurse himself through another before finally leaving sometime between 3 and 4am.

And on some nights, he’d have 3 and leave around 5.

Not that Clint was keeping track or anything.

Clint still didn’t know Mr. Rumpled’s name, still tongue tied after all this time, tripping over himself just to take Mr. Rumpled’s order. He was just damn glad that Nat wasn’t there to see him, because she would have teased him unmercifully.

Any time Clint tried to work up the courage to talk to him, maybe finally get his name, Clint would take one look at the fact that the guy had wedged himself into the furthest corner from anything and anybody, even if the place was empty – a clear sign that he wanted to be left alone to read his book and drink his coffee.

So Clint respected his wish.

Some nights, Mr. Rumpled seemed agitated, drank hot chocolate instead of coffee, and instead of reading, would stare into space for hours at a time. There wasn’t much he could do, but Clint made sure to refill the hot chocolate several times – no charge of course. Mr. Rumpled was so out of it, he never even seemed to notice.

Of course, Mr. Rumpled didn’t take up Clint’s entire shift, and customers were far and few between in the wee hours of the morning, so he’d taken up reading.

Or attempted to.

Nat’s tastes left something to be desired and, well, Clint was barely educated. Sometimes, he felt lucky he could even _read_, so it was demoralizing as all hell when he struggled with whatever the book of the week was. (Actually, he was _very _behind on weeks. He had a collection of books borrowed from Nat sitting on his coffee table at home. Nat had already showed some concern over this and he was pretty sure she was on to him).

And he wanted to read, he did. But the books _Nat _was reading were way out of his league… But he didn’t want to accept it because then he’d have to admit it to _her_ which was the same as admitting defeat. Then she’d look at him sadly and tell him he wasn’t as dumb as he thought he was.

Which. So not true.

Point in fact, tonight he was attempting to read the book she’d been gushing over most recently (For Nat, gushing meant a small smile as she said, “It was an excellent read. I approve.”) but there was something… weird with the language. Clint must have read the same sentence ten times trying to parse it out.

Finally, growling, he shoved it off the counter and dropped his head in his hands, yanking at his hair, which was really getting too long but Clint was too lazy to get it cut. “Gah, I’m just a fucking idiot! Why am I even trying?”

A thunk next to his head made Clint jerk upright and stumble back, eyes wide as he took in Mr. Rumpled – when had _he _come in? - smiling apologetically and rubbing at the back of his neck. “Sorry. I found that on the floor. Figured it was yours?”

Clint blinked, looked down at the book mournfully. Some of the pages were bent. “Awww, book, no. Nat’s gonna kill me.”

“Not yours then?” Mr. Rumpled asked, curiously.

Snorting, Clint shoved the book aside, then sighed and picked it up and tucked it under the register. He’d have to see what he could do about fixing the pages later. “If it was mine, the damn thing would make _sense_.” Because it would have pictures. Or have the sort of vocabulary that didn’t require him to hunt down a dictionary, which he absolutely didn’t have the patience to do.

Not that he had a dictionary. Maybe he should get one? That might be a wise investment if he planned to keep this up, right?

Forcing a cheerful smile on his face – not hard to do when looking at the gorgeous man in front of him – Clint asked, “So what kind of night is it tonight? Fancy cup of coffee or a cozy mug of hot cocoa?”

The man smiled again, a small quirking of his lips that felt like absolute sunshine. “I do come here pretty often, huh?”

“Mmmhhmm,” Clint said. _The highlight of my night,_ he thought. “So, what’ll it be?”

“Whatever the special is today,” Mr. Rumpled said.

Clint grinned and pointed a finger gun at him. “Got it!”

He turned about and set to work, taking a breath as soon as Mr. Rumpled was out of sight. _This _time, Clint would ask him for his name, he was absolutely determined.

“So um, since you’re in here so often, what’s your name?” Clint said, without looking. _There. Perfect!_

“Bucky,” Bucky said easily.

“Oh, cool, well, nice to meet you, Bucky,” Clint said, finishing up the coffee and bringing it back to the counter. Clint felt a ping of disappointment when Bucky didn’t ask for his, but then Bucky paid, dropped his change into the little cup beside the register like he always did, snagged his cup and held it up to his head in some sort of mock salute.

“Thanks, Clint,” he said, walking over to his usual seat.

Leaving Clint standing there gaping. Bucky knew his name? How had Bucky known his name? trying to distract himself, he set about cleaning the already clean counter, and caught a flash of himself in the reflective surface of the coffee machine.

Oh… right, nametags were a thing. Well, no wonder Bucky hadn’t asked his name. Unlike Clint, Bucky could read.

He eyed the register again, and the book that had betrayed him by being unreadable, but had unexpectedly brought about his longest conversation with Bucky ever – _and his name_!

Maybe it deserved a second chance?

* * *

Bucky was fairly sure he was the oldest student on campus, and on some days, that mattered a whole hell of a lot. He kept to himself, unable to relate to most of the other students, grateful that he’d secured off campus housing.

Rooming with some punk who’d probably be out drinking all hours of the night and come stumbling back into their room at ass o’clock in the morning shitfaced and loud as fuck would have done _wonders _for Bucky’s PTSD, he was sure.

Thankfully, the school had agreed with him.

However, that meant he was living alone, had no friends – since Steve and Sam were both still overseas, still in service to their country, where Bucky would have been if he hadn’t gotten himself blowed up – and he’d long ago told Becca to ‘back the fuck off’.

He knew she loved him. He loved her too, but she’d been absolutely smothering when he first got back and he needed some space.

Now he had too much of it.

Still, most days he could deal. And if he found himself waking up in the middle of the night from another heart pounding nightmare and taking himself down to the local coffee shop for a couple of hours, well, small price to pay.

As for the local coffee shop – it was _perfect_.

First off, it was open when he needed it. Secondly, the coffee and the food was actually pretty damn decent. Thirdly, he could sit in there for hours, grounding himself without the staff kicking him out. And it was the perfect mix of not being alone and not getting lost in a crowd.

The usual night barista was maybe another draw, but Bucky wouldn’t admit that even to his therapist. He was usually too out of it when he came in to do much other than order, which was a shame, because Clint – according to the name tag which had taken Bucky a few visits before he even _thought _to look at - was gorgeous.

Bucky didn’t know how the guy had such a good build – _those arms!_ – from working at a coffee shop, but Bucky could easily be mesmerized by just watching Clint move. He was somehow graceful and clumsy all at the same time which was both endearing and hot and Bucky just… couldn’t look away from him. Clint was friendly, always had an easy, open smile for whoever came in, and blonde hair that was long enough to keep flopping over into his face.

Oh, and _gorgeous_ blue eyes that added an extra kick to Clint’s smile.

One of the reasons Bucky picked the booth he did was because of his hyper awareness and his need to just… see all the things. The other was because he could usually ogle the barista over the top of his book and never get caught.

When it was quiet, Clint would sing – loudly enough that Bucky was surprised nobody else minded, until he realized he was the only one there and since _he _didn’t mind, he said nothing. Sometimes Clint would dance about his tasks too, giving Bucky more to watch when he did.

Other times, Clint was quiet, brow furrowed as he read a book. Bucky was highly interested to know what he was reading that required that level of adorable concentration. _There!_ If he could get his act together, that would be a point of interaction! They could talk books, maybe share their favorites or something? It was a good idea, and one that his therapist would have encouraged, he was sure, if she had the slightest clue that Clint existed or that Bucky had a slight crush on the guy.

He knew she meant well, that she just wanted him to be a little more social, and even Bucky had to admit, outside of classes (and he wasn’t sure that even counted), he was a little lacking in that.

So, Bucky waffled back and forth till the night he came into the shop in time to see Clint shove his book off the counter, thunk his head down in its place and clutch at his head, yanking at his floppy hair and wailing in what could only be despair.

Bending down, Bucky picked up the poor book and closed it, turning it over to check the cover. Jane Austen. Huh, he hadn’t expected that. He actually enjoyed Jane Austen, which he hadn’t expected either when Becca had first recommended her during his recovery, and he wondered what it was about the book that had his normally upbeat barista was so down in the dumps.

He dropped the book on the counter and grimaced when it startled Clint so badly. _James Buchanan Barnes, you should **know** better than to do something like that_. Sudden, loud banging noises had been known to set off his PTSD on occasion, and he didn’t know the poor guys history.

Still, it had sparked a conversation and Clint had appeared to forgive him, _and _Bucky had managed to give him his name, finally.

He pulled out his own book – Snow Crash - and watched as Clint gave his a second chance.

The second chance didn’t seem to be going any better than his first chance. Clint’s eyebrows were furrowed in a way that Bucky would like to kiss away, his lips moving silently as his eyes darted slowly over the page. Clint was either a slow reader or…

_“Gah, I’m just a fucking idiot! Why am I even trying?”_

Bucky blinked as he remembered the grumbled, barely audible words Clint had spoken when he’d come in. He bit his lip as he watched Clint, wondering if an offer to help would go amiss – was Clint the sort of guy who would accept or take offense?

Looking down at his now empty mug, Bucky decided to get a refill and see if he could strike up a _second _conversation.

He approached the counter, waiting to be noticed by Clint who was so absorbed in his attempt to read that he apparently didn’t notice Bucky. Trying not to startle him again, Bucky cleared his throat.

Clint squeaked and snapped the book shut, blushing. Oh that was pretty… Bucky tried not to blush back. “You uh, know they made a miniseries out of that?”

“Huh?” the furrow appeared on Clint’s head again as he pushed his hair out of his face, but this time it was more adorably confuzzled than upset.

Bucky pointed at Clint’s book. “Pride and Prejudice. Actually, there’s a few adaptations of it on film, but the miniseries with Colin Firth was really good. Does the book justice. And Colin Firth ain’t half bad either.”

“Oh?” Clint smiled. “I’ll have to look it up. Thanks, Bucky!”

“So, um…” Bucky’s courage failed him. “Could I get another coffee?”

“Sure thing!” Clint chirped.

Bucky might have melted.

* * *

Okay, so the night hadn’t been a _total _disaster. He’d gotten Mr. Rumpled’s name, held not one but _two _conversations with him _and _he now had a way to ‘read’ Pride and Prejudice and be able to hold his own discussing the book with Nat when she (inevitably) asked what he thought about it.

Also, he was pretty sure Bucky had just come out to him.

As soon as he got home, he looked up the miniseries Bucky had told him about, was dismayed that it was _not _on Netflix and ordered it off Amazon instead.

It arrived right before work, of course, so he had to wait until he got home the following morning. He immediately watched the first episode – and _only _the first episode. He was being responsible, dammit! Clint needed some sleep before he headed out to the college for the archery classes, followed by another stint at Nat’s café – whereupon he proceeded to discuss the episode with Bucky.

“Oh my god, Mr. Darcy is such a jerk!” Clint blurted just as soon as Bucky arrived. He hadn’t even let the door finish chiming before he’d done it and Bucky paused in the doorway at his outburst.

“He’ll grow on ya,” Bucky said, a small smile twitching up the corners of his face. Clint wondered what a full smile would look like.

“Elizabeth can do soooo much better,” Clint insisted. “And God, could her mother be any more annoying or conniving?”

Bucky chuckled, moving the counter. “I take it you _are _enjoying it then?”

Clint nodded. “Much better than I thought, considering…” he waved at the book still under the register, though he doubted Bucky could see it from there.

“Hey um, this could be out of line but, sometimes, if you’re having trouble with a book, if you can find a visual version to watch as you read along, it can help. Or you have someone to read _with _you,” Bucky said, one hand playing with the hem of his hoody, looking at Clint a little anxiously.

Clint froze, eyes going wide. Had his aids futzed out? What had Bucky just offered?

“Um… what?”

“I mean, I know you can read – I’m not saying you can’t – but the book seemed to be frustrating you and I just thought, if it’s one I’ve read, maybe I could… help you?”

Bucky _seemed _earnest at least, and not at all like a guy who would turn around and laugh at Clint when he found out just how bad he was. What he _did _look was a little afraid – of putting himself out there at all or of Clint’s reaction or both, Clint couldn’t tell.

He gulped. He was getting nowhere fast on his own. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to take Bucky up on his offer?

“Well, you’re not entirely wrong,” Clint said slowly. “I’m _not_ a very good reader, so uh, I could probably use all the help I could get.”

Bucky straightened up, his face brightening a bit as he said, “Yeah?”

Clint nodded. “But, full transparency here, I’m really bad. Like, I never graduated kind of bad.”

Bucky shrugged. “Probably just need some practice, then.”

Before Clint knew it, he and Bucky had put together a Book Club/Class and in between customers and copious amounts of coffee (that Clint _might _have used his discount on…) they were huddled together poring over the book of the day.

At one point, Bucky shook his head. “Y’know, Clint, I’m pretty impressed.”

Clint looked up at Bucky across the table. “How do you mean?”

“That you didn’t give up. The books you were reading were not at your level, but you kept trying and you _were still _making progress despite that. You like to think you’re dumb, but I think you’re plenty smart.” Bucky shrugged. “Just, you haven’t had many opportunities to grow. Sorry, I’m probably saying that all bad.”

Blushing at his words, warmth spreading through him, Clint shook his head. “No, uh… no you’re fine…” He cleared his throat and decided to change the subject instead.

“So, what on earth do you even do? I mean, what kind of schedule has you coming in here in the middle of the night, like, every night? I know why _I’m _here,” Clint said.

Bucky paused, fiddling with the mug in front of him, his eyes avoiding Clint’s and staring down at the table. “I’m a student at the local college. Most of my classes are late afternoon or early evening,” he said with a shrug.

Clint blinked. “Really? Cool,” he said with a smile. He dropped the subject since Bucky seemed uncomfortable with it but Clint could tell there was a _lot _more there than Bucky had said. He wasn’t the typical college age for a student, for one, and maybe that’s one of the reasons he was so nice about helping Clint, actually? That bore thinking on. But there was something else, something Bucky was avoiding, but whatever. It wasn’t Clint’s business. He could respect Bucky’s boundaries.

Of course, just because they had some new book club thing going on, didn’t mean that there weren’t still nights when Bucky came in looking just a bit lost and wild.

On those nights, book club didn’t happen at all.

Because those were the nights that Bucky’s haunted eyes almost stared through Clint, asking for hot chocolate in a broken, rough voice – like maybe he’d been yelling.

Now that they were friends – they were friends, right? God, Clint hoped they were friends – Clint still sat with him like it _was _a book club night, but he kept his company silent, just trying to _be _there for Bucky. It seemed to help whatever was going on with Bucky and Clint had a feeling this was more of that stuff Bucky didn’t talk about.

It was obvious, right? Clint could be dumb, but he wasn’t _that _dumb.

Bad nights or not, Clint looked forward to Bucky showing up even more now that they were talking on the regular, and tonight was no different. He’d been reading something Bucky had recommended – a book called Psion with a cheesy as hell cover, the title in skinny, neon green letters, but it was good and damn if Clint didn’t find himself identifying somewhat with the main character, at least so far- and he was pretty proud of how far he’d gotten without any help.

The bell chimed and Clint looked up from his book, sliding a receipt inside to keep his place and tucking it under the register. He could already feel the grin spreading over his face and his hands reaching for a mug – Bucky’s favorite (and secretly one of Clint’s too, as it had an arrow and target theme), set aside just for him. “Hey, Bucky! How are – “

The man before him wasn’t Bucky and Clint deflated though he kept his customer service smile pasted on. “Oh, sorry about that,” he grinned sheepishly. “Was expecting someone. Anyways, welcome to Hit the Spot! What would you like?”

The man was frowning at him and, actually, he looked a little familiar, but Clint couldn’t quite place him.

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

“Uh, no? I see a lot of people every day. Part of the gig, y’know? Sorry, man.” Clint shrugged.

“I can’t believe you weren’t fired,” he growled. “You treat me like a piece of shit and think you can get away with it?”

And that’s when it clicked. Oh, _that _guy. The rest of Clint’s smile fell. “Pretty sure you _are _a piece of shit. Didn’t I kick you out? Yeah, yeah! I remember now! You were the guy ragging on those kids that came in, calling them names and getting in their faces and shit.” Clint shrugged again. “I stand by my actions.”

“Oh yeah?” the man said with a smirk that made the bottom fall out of Clint’s stomach, pulling out a gun and waving it at Clint. “Do you stand by them _now?”_

Clint stared at the guy in front of him. Nat would tell him it was his own fault he was in this situation but seriously, the jackass was a loudmouthed bigot. And yes, Clint _does _still stand by his actions a few months back – the one that got him sent to nights for antagonizing the customers.

But really, did they need customers like this? Ones that were apparently all too willing to come back, primed for revenge?

He should probably be trying to talk his way out of this, but the man was clearly unstable if he was holding a grudge over what amounted to a minor inconvenience in the man’s life. So what if Clint had refused to serve him? And told him to get the hell out? There were plenty of other coffee shops to frequent.

Like Starbucks.

Eyes flicking around the café, Clint tried to catalogue his chances even as he slowly raised his hands to where the lunatic could see them. He grew up rough, he knew how to fight dirty, but there were actually other customers in the place he had to keep in mind. Well, only one, at the moment, though Bucky could be there any second now, but one was still one customer too many for a situation as dangerous as this.

It seemed like an eternity had passed and Clint was wondering why he hadn’t been shot yet. In reality, it had been less than a minute since the guy had drawn his gun, a minute in which he was too busy ranting about the injustices of the world and the evils of people like _Clint _and the kids Clint had defended to have moved on to the actual shooting part yet.

Which, really, Clint should be grateful for.

The chime of the bell over the door distracted the gunman and Clint seized his chance. The gunman’s head twisted, the hand holding the gun lowered, and Clint vaulted over the counter, using his momentum and proximity to clip the guy in the head with his feet.

The gun went off, the shot wild as the guy stumbled back from Clint’s assault. Clint pressed his advantage, wrestling the gun out of the man’s hand and kicking it away, towards the door – towards Bucky who was frozen in place and starting to shake, but fuck, Clint couldn’t do anything about that just now – grunting when the man got a knee into Clint’s stomach (thank fuck it wasn’t his groin) in his moment of inattention.

Clint doubled down. He was stronger than he looked and he used that against the gunman until Clint managed to twist him around till he was face down on the floor, Clint’s knee in the small of his back with the man’s arms both twisted up behind him painfully.

Breathing hard, Clint finally looked up.

The sound in the shop was off, not quite silent but not all there and Clint groaned. He’d lost his ears in the scuffle and he hoped to hell they hadn’t gotten busted, but all that took a backseat when he caught a glimpse of Bucky. Bucky had slid to the floor and he was shaking like a leaf, his lips pressed tightly together like they were just barely holding something back. Looking around, he saw the middle-aged lady – Mrs. Parker, maybe? - at the back of the shop was just coming back up from under the table, her phone already at her ear.

“Cops?” Clint asked. She nodded and he was glad she didn’t try speaking. He was still a little shook up himself and didn’t think he could have managed a passable lip read at that moment. “Good, thank you.”

He turned back to Bucky. “Bucky? Man, you okay? Were you shot?”

Bucky didn’t answer him. In fact, despite repeated attempts to get his attention, nothing seemed to be getting through to Bucky at all and Clint looked around desperately. He didn’t know how long it would take the cops to get there – they were never fast enough to arrive at a scene when you _needed _them, but be in the wrong place at the wrong time and they’re _always _right there to arrest you, which was just, typical Barton luck – and he couldn’t just let this guy go to check on Bucky.

* * *

Bucky hurried along to the café, the bright point beckoning him forward. Tonight had been a rough one, leaving him edgy and much in need of comfort. A comfort he was increasingly finding in the café he’d started frequenting mostly because it was the only place open when he needed to get out of his head.

And then had returned to willingly when he found how inviting it was.

Now that he’d gotten to know Clint, it was even more a haven then before. He looked forward to book club every night/morning, even set an alarm on his phone just in case he actually slept in which, maybe not the healthiest thing in some ways, but had been going a long ways towards his mental well-being in others.

Having a friend was good.

Having a friend as good and kind and funny as Clint was was even better.

And being able to help him was doing wonders for Bucky. Knowing that even though he still felt like a fuck up half the time, he was still able to help someone _else_ – it was amazing. And Clint – _Clint_ was amazing too. Clint had been just as abysmal as he’d claimed when Bucky first took him under his wing but he was increasingly positive that it had been lack of opportunity and _not _smarts, because Clint just soaked up everything Bucky showed him, learning by leaps and bounds.

Which Bucky had definitely tried to convey. Clint hadn’t stormed off in a huff so he was hopeful that he’d succeeded in that.

Sometimes Clint was a little too loud, moved a little too sudden, or too much but he also looked like he was all kinds of energy looking for some sort of outlet, like he wasn’t _used _to standing still. Despite that, Clint was soothing to be around, rather than triggering.

Calming, somehow.

He was generous too. Bucky had seen Clint’s small acts of kindness when he thought nobody was looking. Free refills for anyone looking like they were having a bad day. Pulling his own money out of his pocket to help the homeless folks who came in late at night to get a little warmth and were a little short on cash. Things like that.

If Bucky hadn’t already had a crush on Clint, he’d be fast developing one now.

So he shuffled forward in a bit of a haze, looking forward greatly to the warmth that enveloped him the second he entered the coffee shop -

And then the night came crashing down even harder than it already had. He opened the door of the café, heard the chimes wash over his body, it’s welcome letting a little bit of the tension in his shoulders bleed away – and then he realized something was wrong. Clint was stiff and uneasy behind the counter, his hands up as a man stood in front of him.

Bucky froze in the doorway.

The man turned slightly – enough for Bucky to register the gun –

And then everything happened so fast. There was a shot, Clint was moving and Bucky…

Bucky was on the ground trying to breathe through his panic. Part of him wanted to leap to Clint’s defense, but the rest of him had already woken up screaming from nightmares of his time overseas and he couldn’t _move_.

He couldn’t move, there was no air, he was suffocating –

Oh god, he was suffocating and pinned down –

He was trapped – it was all happening again –

Or was still happening –

Maybe he’d never gotten out –

Bucky jerked when something touched him, his head hitting the wall with a painful clarity, sparking through the panic strewn haze around his mind. His eyes swam and resolved on the face of Clint, concerned and close. It took his ears a little longer to catch up, to actually understand the sounds being directed at him -

“-ucky, please,” Clint pleaded. “It’s okay, you’re sa - - ‘s all over. You’re safe. Please breathe, oh my god, what do I do?”

Strangely, it was _Clint’s_ panic that finally cut through the worst of it, Bucky choking down a breath, then another till finally the trembling ceased and he was breathing _almost _normally. He was still unsettled, still far too close to the edge, but it _helped_.

“Clint?” he gasped out.

“Oh, thank God. Are you hurt?”

Bucky thought about it. “I don’t think so.” His eyes flicked past Clint to the man hog tied on the floor using industrial grade zip ties, struggling and glaring at Clint the whole while. Bucky snapped his gaze back to look at Clint. “You,” he choked. “He was… you were…”

“I’m fine, Bucky,” Clint said, relaxing a bit. “I’ve faced worse odds than a single guy with a gun. I’ll have a few bruises maybe, and Nat might tell me off for charging him, but I don’t think I had the time to wait for the police so…” Clint trailed off and shrugged.

“But you’re okay?”

“I’m okay,” Clint said softly. “Can I touch you? Like, a hug, or something?”

Bucky tentatively nodded. Yeah, he thought that might be helpful. Suddenly, it was all he craved, his skin crawling with all the fear and pent up emotions from the nightmare and the assault.

The bell chimed as Clint was moving in and Bucky flinched, whimpering.

“No, it’s okay, it’s okay, I got ya,” Clint said, his arms coming around Bucky. Bucky buried his face in Clint’s neck, breathing hard, the trembling having started up again. He closed his eyes and breathed in Clint and tried to calm himself. With each breath in, he realized Clint was rubbing his back soothingly as he spoke with whoever had come into the shop. Clint didn’t seem concerned with who it was, though, which helped.

Another notch of tension released.

“Clint Barton, why am I not surprised?” The voice was dry in the way it was when someone was hiding their amusement.

“Hi Phil!”

“It’s Coulson,” the unseen man said with a long-suffering sigh. “Why don’t you tell me what happened here?” Ah, a cop then. Good. Of course, that raised a few questions Bucky wasn’t prepared to follow up on just then.

“It wasn’t my fault!” Clint protested. Bucky’s hands came up around Clint and pulled him tight – as much for Clint, now, as for him. Though maybe it was still mostly for Bucky. The man had held a _gun _on his _friend_, of _course _it wasn’t Clint’s fault! “Look, I’ll get you the security tape, soon as I can, but it’s gonna have to wait a minute.”

Bucky winced internally. He was making things worse, harder on everybody because of his panic attack. He tried to pull away and at first Clint froze, then loosened his arms though he didn’t let him completely free yet.

“Doing better?” Clint asked. Bucky nodded. “Good. How about I sit you in your spot and get you the largest mug of hot cocoa ever?” Bucky mulled that over. The familiarity of the space _and _the action might help. He nodded.

It seemed like forever before he was huddled in his familiar corner, his backpack pressing up against his side in the booth, his hands cradling his mug, clutching it more for the warmth it was radiating then for the drink itself.

Clint looked reluctant to leave Bucky’s side and Bucky wanted to keep him there but didn’t dare. But eventually Clint did leave, talking to the cops before ducking into the back and retrieving something to hand off to the one in the suit.

Mrs. Parker came and sat with him, not too close, not touching, but just chatting. It helped as Clint took care of the cops, the man on the floor was picked up and taken away, the gun was gathered for evidence and the man in the suit came over to Bucky’s table.

“I’m Detective Coulson. I’m sorry,” he said, giving Bucky an understanding look. “but I’d like to ask both of you questions about what happened.”

“Can’t tell you much,” Bucky said.

“It’s okay son, take your time,” Detective Coulson said gently.

“I walked in, saw… saw _him_ holding a gun on Clint and… and… “ Bucky’s hands started shaking again and the now lukewarm cocoa sloshed over the rim of the cup, over his hand and glove, all over the table.

Clint was sliding into the booth next to him, pulling the mug out of his hands and wiping Bucky’s hands clean with gentle swipes that made Bucky’s breath catch, all while glaring up at the detective. “Everything you need to know, Mrs. Parker and I already told you, plus, it’s all on camera.”

The Detective nodded. “Yes, I agree that should be enough. He going to be all right?” he asked, nodding at Bucky.

Bucky would have bristled at that, but he was too exhausted on all counts - physically, mentally and emotionally – to care. Instead, he leaned towards Clint as Clint looked at Bucky with a little smile.

“Yeah, I’ll make sure he is.”

And Bucky knew, somehow, that yes, yes he would, and Bucky would let him.


	2. A Few Surprises...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's been feeling a little depressed since the incident in the coffee shop. It takes an unexpected visitor with a slightly unorthodox plan to start prying him out of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint Barton Square - College AU  
Bucky Barnes Square - the one with the picture of Tony working on Bucky's arm
> 
> Mandatory Fun Day - TECHNICALLY i put up the first chapter when this particular theme was started but i didn't really make a big thing out of it. CLint's long hair has a slightly bigger part in this chapter and will probably continue to play it's part from one chapter to the next. so...

Bucky was grateful for Clint and impressed after the incident in the coffee shop, but the guilt he had about not helping, about not stepping up in a moment of need – a crisis moment – meant that he didn’t leave his bed or go to classes for three days and he ignored his phone every time it rang, with every text message beep.

Which wasn’t all that many, actually, which made him even more depressed.

It wasn’t until someone started pounding on his door that Bucky even dragged himself further than the bathroom or across the open room to the kitchen.

He wanted to be in Clint’s arms again. They’d been strong and firm but gentle. They’d made Bucky feel safer than anything in years – but the sanctuary of the café had been broken by the man with the gun. That and his guilt warred with his desire to go back to see Clint.

He’d been useless. Less than useless. Clint had needed to take care of _him_. He’d been a sergeant in the goddamned army! How pathetic was he that he couldn’t stand up to one lone man with a gun who probably hadn’t had any more idea how to use it then a toddler?

The pounding on his door continued and Bucky shuffled over to it. He had no clue who it could be, unless Becca had made good some past threats and dropped everything to check on him.

Oh god, what if she had? _More_ guilt swarmed through him, pushing him further down.

Carefully, he looked through the peephole and was so surprised by who was standing there, that Bucky was opening the door before he’d stopped to think about it.

“Professor Stark?”

“Ah! There’s my golden child!” Stark said, beaming as soon as Bucky opened the door. The smile on his face twitched downward as he took in how Bucky looked. How _did _Bucky look? He glanced down. Stained grey sweatpants and oversized hoody – check. He looked back up. Stark shook his head. “You look like shit.”

“Feel like it,” Bucky mumbled in a rare moment of full honesty.

“Well, you gonna invite me in?”

“That depends – what the fuck are you doing here?” Bucky asked, crossing his arms over his chest, finally getting his wits about him.

“Is that any way to treat a teacher who’s concerned about you?” Stark said.

Bucky blinked and in that brief span of inattention, Stark had somehow squeezed through his door and into his little studio apartment. Absently, Bucky closed the door and turned to stare at Stark who was meandering through the apartment, occasionally running a finger over a book or peering into a cabinet.

“Have you eaten? I’m starving. Let’s order take out.” Stark rifled through the menus Bucky had stacked by the fridge.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Bucky reiterated.

Stark paused. “Seriously, not only haven’t you been to classes in several days – and I checked, it’s not just yours truly you’ve been skipping out on – but you missed arm adjustment day. That thing’s still in trial, y’know. You have to have a very good reason for not making it to one of those.”

Bucky felt the panic that had gripped him at the café falling over him again. “You gonna take it away?” Bucky’s voice felt so very far away.

Stark finally blinked, looking surprised. “No? Why would I do – hey, hey! Barnes, you okay?”

For the second time in a handful of days, Bucky found himself on the floor, shaking, with someone looking at him in concern. It wasn’t near as reassuring with Stark as with Clint, but Stark took charge nearly instantly - it was something he was good at - and before Bucky knew it, he’d been bundled up in his blankets on the futon – still spread out as a bed - something warm pressed into his hands, Stark speaking gently the entire time though Bucky hadn’t caught a single word, just the tones of it.

“Okay, you back with me yet?” Stark asked. Bucky nodded jerkily. He didn’t know how much time had passed, and he daren’t look. “Wanna tell me what’s going on?”

“Not really, no,” Bucky said stubbornly.

“Fair enough.”

Another knock on the door caught Bucky off guard and Stark jumped up with a smile. “Ah! That’d be the food. I went simple – pizza. Everyone loves pizza. Didn’t know what you liked so I got plain, meatlovers and a mushroom with extra garlic.”

When the hell – how out of it had he been if Stark had ordered food in the meantime? And it had had time to get there? Jesus. Bucky was really off balance. He huddled deeper into the blankets.

There was a quiet murmur at the door as Stark opened it, paid for the pizzas and closed it again, bringing it over to the trunk serving as Bucky’s coffee table.

Soon enough, Bucky was curled up in his own corner of the couch while his professor perched on the other side, both of them eating pizza. Stark had gone straight for the meatlovers, and Bucky had gone for the mushroom with extra garlic.

They ate in silence for a bit, which was the strangest thing to Bucky, cause Stark was never quiet.

“So, I had this idea, for the arm,” Stark said around his pizza.

“Gross,” Bucky muttered. “Stop talking with your mouth full. You’re supposed to be a role model to impressionable young minds.”

Stark swallowed. “Shut up,” he said with a snort. “Like you’re an impressionable mind. You’re stubborn as a mule.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “What’s your idea?”

“Oh, right,” Stark said. He put his pizza down and wiped his hands, beaming excitedly. “How do you feel about archery? I thought we could continue to test your dexterity and fine-tune your movement. Bows are both delicate _and _need a certain amount of strength to use. You mastered turning book pages months ago. I want to up the ante.”

“Archery?” Bucky asked in surprise. “You want to hand me a weapon?”

Waving him off, Stark picked his pizza back up and took another huge bite. “If it’s a problem, I’ll figure out something else, but I figured its drastically different enough it might not cause any issues and we already have access to the best archery teacher in the world.”

Stark was probably exaggerating, he was prone to that, Bucky thought, but he could have a point. Bucky mulled it over. It might work. It’d be something different, anyway. “Okay, so I’ll see if I can fit it in my schedule next semest – “

“No, no, no, that won’t do with my timetable,” Stark said. “Wanna start you by the end of the week.”

“Stark, it’s the middle of the semester,” Bucky protested. “Neither the teacher or the rest of the students are going to be happy about that.”

“Trust me, I’ve got it all handled. Mr. Barton said if you were up for it, he didn’t mind in the slightest. Private lessons on an accelerated schedule, and I’ll talk to the administration, get it approved as credits for you,” Stark said, waving away his concerns once more. His finger hovered over his phone. “So, should I let them know to go ahead with the plan?”

Feeling a little bulldozed but a lot less like the depressive lump he’d been only an hour ago, Bucky nodded. Maybe this would be just the thing to get him out of his head and forget the failure from a few days ago? Learning something new, accomplishing something, always made him feel just a little bit better.

He’d learned to take his wins where he could.

* * *

Clint still couldn’t believe he was a teacher at a college – him! Without even a high school diploma! Sure, it wasn’t for anything academic, but still, it boggled his mind. Sometimes, he was sure President Fury would figure out Clint wasn’t worth the schools’ time and reputation and he’d be out on his ass. But until then, he was going to enjoy teaching archery for as long as possible and save what he could in the meantime.

As if life wasn’t surreal enough, earlier that week, Clint had been approached by one of the bigger brains on campus to start up a private lesson plan for one of the students. Clint had been about to argue about special treatment and point out it was the middle of the semester when Professor Stark had explained about the bionic limb testing he was doing, focusing on vets, and how Clint’s particular specialty could help him make better limbs and streamline the process.

Well. Okay then.

How could he say no to _that?_

Today was going to be the first lesson and Clint was nervous as hell. He’d had a rough week, starting with the day the customer had tried to shoot him. Since then, Coulson had bugged him several times, Nat had given him the ‘concerned but disappointed’ look and Bucky hadn’t returned to the café at all.

Clint missed him more than he’d have thought.

_You barely know the guy_, Clint tried to remind himself. _Now focus, you have a new student coming in, and you get to put all your attention on him._

The pep talk didn’t work, so Clint pulled out his own bow, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and started shooting. It was a calming, meditative thing for him, as easy as breathing. Of course, there hadn’t been much call for archery outside of the carnival he’d grown up with, leaving him at loose ends and barely holding his head above water when he started working at Nat’s coffee shop.

_Twang – Thwack!_

She’d been a literal lifesaver, taking one look at him and making some sort of judgement call that ignored his lack of steady education or a diploma and had given him a job.

Then he’d entered a local, open competition last year and that’s how he’d gotten on President Fury’s radar.

_Twang – Thwack!_

Hence the job.

_Twang – Thwack!_

He knew he was good, but he still felt like an imposter most days, whenever he walked through the campus. He was too scruffy, too uneducated to be a _real _teacher, and he was too old and stupid to be a student here.

Clint felt as if he didn’t belong and yet, this was his _dream _job.

_Twang – Thwack!_

Some days, he was sure everyone around him was judging him, even though the students had no way of knowing Clint had never finished high school – had barely gone, in fact, thanks to the circus.

It had seemed a good idea at the time, when he and Barney had run away. It was more stable than where they’d been, the foster system having failed them completely. It worked for some folks, Clint would grant it that, but apparently not for Barton’s.

It’d been no great loss, anyway. It wasn’t like Clint had been doing too hot in school before that. It’d been a relief to get away.

_Twang – Thwack!_

The familiar, rhythmic sound of the pull, release and subsequent hits calmed him, helped him push those thoughts away and pulled him into the zone so far that he didn’t notice anyone else entering the range.

Not until a throat cleared behind him. He let go one last arrow, smiling at the pattern he’d made in the target. Cheer up, Clint, positive thinking. You can absolutely do this.

He put the bow down, spread a smile over his face and turned to look at his prospective new student – Mr. Barnes, according to Professor Starks messages.

And his mouth dropped.

“Bucky?” Clint squeaked.

Bucky, for his part, looked just as shell shocked as Clint _felt._ How was this his life? Oh my god. Right, Bucky had mentioned he was a college student, but knowing and _knowing _it were two different things. And… wait… bionic limbs? Bucky was the recipient of a bionic limb? A few more things fell into place for Clint, though yes, they were most assuredly assumptions, but it explained the other night quite a bit, actually.

And, for that matter, all the midnight / early morning trips to the café like clockwork.

Not that he was going to ask. None of Clint’s business and Bucky hadn’t volunteered the information.

They stared at each other for what felt like eternity, Clint finally taking note of how terrible Bucky looked – the dark circles under his eyes, more pronounced than usual, the pale skin and his hunched over frame, making him look even shorter than he already was.

Clint was suddenly positive Bucky hadn’t slept since that night in the café, or if he had, it hadn’t been enough.

Bucky eventually blinked and sent Clint a small, rueful smile, and said, “Hey, Clint,” in a low, roughened voice.

Clint couldn’t decide if this was a disaster or not. He’d wanted to see Bucky, but everything seemed so uncomfortable now. And usually it was the other way around, Bucky teaching him, not Clint teaching Bucky. Would Bucky be okay knowing that his teacher was an idiot? Would he stick it out or turn around and walk away?

No, Bucky wasn’t like that, Clint reminded himself, but his stomach didn’t get the message, turning around on itself and knotting up so bad he thought he might get sick.

Fuck, he hoped he didn’t make a fool out of himself. He couldn’t bear that Bucky would think any worse of him than he already must.

Professor Stark, on the other hand, was looking all too pleased with himself, completely oblivious to the rampage of panicking thoughts in Clint’s brain. “Oh! So you two know each other already? Beautiful, beautiful.” He clapped his hand together. “Now don’t mind me, I’m just going to sit in the corner and observe. You won’t even notice me.”

Bucky snorted and Clint almost choked on a laugh. It was obvious neither of them believed it, but neither of them called Stark out on it, and the professors eyes twinkled, like he knew exactly what they were thinking.

Bastard probably did, for that matter.

Clint cleared his throat, flicked his gaze over to Stark and back to Bucky. “Okay, so, um… what do you know about archery?” Clint dove right in, evaluating what Bucky already knew and didn’t know, watched his instinctive stance the first time he picked up the bow. It was almost right, like he had some experience – just not with a bow. Clint corrected his stance, hands hovering around Bucky nervously – why the fuck was he nervous? Him and Bucky were friends, right?

Shaking it off, Clint took a deep breath and proceeded to lose himself in the instructing.

* * *

Bucky didn’t know what to expect from an archery class, or the teacher. He hadn’t expected Stark to walk him to his private lesson, but on retrospect – even before Stark said he wanted to gather data – it made sense.

The range was empty, except for one other man, which Bucky was grateful for, as the fewer people there to see him make a fool of himself, the better. The instructor wasn’t anything he expected either, wearing sneakers, jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt.

Bucky’s eyes scanned over the instructor. Even through the shirt, Bucky could see the flexing muscles in his arms, the ripple of his shoulders, the steadiness. His back was to them, apparently unaware of their entrance, longish blonde hair that looked familiar. Bucky frowned as the man continued to make shot after shot. At first, Bucky thought he kept missing, but a pattern soon emerged and he had to stifle a chuckle.

So Starks’ claim that he was good wasn’t wrong.

And then the man turned and Bucky was stunned to see Clint.

Clint, the night time barista at Hit the Spot. Clint, who had admitted to Bucky that he hadn’t even graduated highschool, much less college, was teaching… _in a college?_

What was going on???

Clint was just as shocked as he was, but he seemed to get over it quickly. He fell into the role of instructor smoothly and Bucky was mesmerized from the start. He was not only good at what he did, but he was good at teaching. He tested what Bucky knew, tested Bucky’s hand and arm strengths, didn’t say anything about the fact that they all knew why Bucky was here and all in all, acted like a total – yet absolutely friendly – professional.

Stark stopped them occasionally, asking questions, jotting down notes. At one point, he stood, striding over and motioning to Bucky’s arm. “I wanna make an adjustment.”

Blushing for who knew what reason, Bucky slipped the glove off his hand, giving Stark access to the more minute electronics there, the ones that took care of a lot of the fine motor skills and precision movement.

Clint’s eyes went wide, his mouth opened and Bucky braced himself for it. Stark smacked his other shoulder. “Don’t tense up.”

“I’m not tense,” Bucky protested, forcing his shoulders down and breathing slowly.

“You’re always tense,” Stark mumbled around a tool. Thankfully, it didn’t take long before Stark had closed it up again and Bucky was pulling his glove back on. Clint didn’t say anything and eventually, Bucky relaxed back into the rhythm of it all.

When the lesson ended, both of them were surprised.

Stark jumped up, muttering to himself before he paused at the door. “Well, I think that went well. See you in class tomorrow, Barnes. No skipping this time!” Stark pointed at him sternly, then left the range.

After Stark left, Bucky helped Clint pick everything up, the tension from earlier returning a little. Would Clint ask him about his arm? Would he want to know what had happened to it? Or had he already connected two and two and come up with four, linking Bucky’s episode in the café with the loss of a limb?

He tensed, but when Clint spoke, it surprised him.

“If you want someone else, I’ll understand,” Clint said quietly, suddenly all nervousness and shifty eyes. Gone was the confidence he’d had when showing Bucky how to shoot. Gone was the serenity he’d had when he’d been shooting. Gone were the easy smiles and the encouraging look as Bucky struggled with the bow.

In its place, Clint looked… resigned, almost.

Bucky was, if anything, even more lost. “Whaddya mean by that?”

Clint blew out a breath, shrugged and his hair shifted. He grimaced, pushing it back out of his face. Bucky had the absurd thought that he could have tucked it out of the way, or that, if it was just a leeetle bit longer, he could sacrifice a hair tie and help Clint out.

He blinked, focusing on what Clint was saying. “Look, none of them know, okay? Not the other teachers or any of the students. It’s none of their business and I’m good at what I do. Okay, so please don’t tell. Anyway, Fury knows that I’m…” Clint shrugged. “Y’know, dumb.”

Bucky stared at him, stunned. Wait… Clint thought that Bucky wouldn’t want him as a teacher, even though it was fucking _obvious_ he knew what he was talking about, just because he hadn’t gotten a _diploma_?

Clint shifted on his feet, not looking at Bucky. The hand not full of arrows was twisting at some of his hair. It… kinda hurt to watch and Bucky wanted to help Clint the way Clint had helped him the other night.

“I thought we already established you weren’t,” Bucky said. “Lack of a formal education doesn’t make you dumb, Clint. It means you were denied the opportunities and chances everyone else had.”

Clint shrugged. His face struggled through a few emotions. It was obvious he didn’t believe Bucky, but that he wanted to – but was maybe a little bit afraid to? What was Clint’s life that he’d been knocked about like this, treated so poorly he automatically distrusted anyone who tried to tell him differently?

As much as Bucky wanted to ask, it wasn’t his fucking business. “Look, whatever you’re thinking, I want you to stay on, as my teacher.”

Clint’s head shot up. He blinked at Bucky owlishly from under the mop of hair flopping over his face. “Huh?”

“You’re good, and I’ve already learned a lot –“

“Nah, you’re a natural –“ Clint protested.

“I’ve… got an advantage in some other areas that… that might translate over,” Bucky said reluctantly. “Doesn’t change the fact that you’re _good _at this, and at teaching and I’d be a fool to go and get someone else.”

“Seriously?” Clint asked. “But what about…”

“How about this – you’re teaching me, and I’m teaching you. What if we bet on it – who’s made the most progress by the official end of the semester?” Bucky asked. He had no idea where the epiphany came from but watching Clint’s eyes glitter at the challenge made him supremely glad he’d come up with it.

Finally letting go of his hair, Clint stuck his hand out. “Deal!”

Slowly, Bucky wrapped his metal hand around Clint’s and carefully shook it. Their hands lingered in the handshake a little too long and Bucky cleared his throat, dropped his hand and tried to find a way to make this less awkward, when he remembered that even before Clint had opened his mouth, there’d been awkward, even if it was just on Bucky’s end, and it had been Bucky’s own fault.

Bucky grimaced. “Anyway, _I _wanted to apologize,”

“For what?”

“For running away,” Bucky said. “For not coming back. The other night, after…” After that man had violated Bucky’s sanctuary. He shuddered a little.

“Hey, man, I get it,” Clint said. “That kind of experience would have been upsetting for anyone.”

Bucky snorted. “Not you. You tackled him without a care in the world.”

Clint grinned at him sheepishly, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “Uh, well, I have a habit of leaping before I think. Gets me in loads of trouble. Honestly, if I’d stopped to think about it, I’d have probably run screaming for the hills.”

“You uh, you did good, though. Looked like you knew what you were doing,” Bucky said.

“You saw that?” Clint asked. “I thought – I mean – “ he stopped himself and flushed. “Sorry, I shouldn’t… argh… see what I mean? I’m shutting up now.”

Bucky looked away. “Yeah, it… it wasn’t a good night for me, even before I’d come in.”

“Will you come back?” Clint asked quietly, his voice timid.

“Yeah, I’ll try. Gotta keep the book club going, right?”

Relief filled Clint’s face and Bucky resolved to go tonight, otherwise, the next time he saw Clint wouldn’t be for another three days. “Hey, so, you work here _and _the café?” Bucky asked, resuming the task of picking arrows out of the targets and off the ground. “Isn’t that a lot?”

“I mean, not really? I work the overnights at the coffee shop and I have loads of free time then, as you know,” Clint said, taking the arrows from Bucky and walking back up the range. “And then I go home and sleep till the afternoon. I only do 2 classes every other night, and I coach the team on the other nights. Weekends are mostly free – though that might change if we start doing competitions.”

“Oh yeah, I heard the archery team was only formed this year,” Bucky said. “This is my first year here, so…”

“Yeah, it was Fury’s idea after he saw me in a local competition. That’s how I got the job, actually. He’s hoping to collect a few more folks and try to make it some sort of specialty for the college, I think?” Clint’s face screwed up a bit as he thought, then he shrugged. “Or something, anyway. Fury’s got plans to put this place on the map.”

“It’s already on a map,” Bucky pointed out as they put the equipment away.

“Yeah, but like, even _more _on the map. He’s collecting the best of the best, so we’ll get a better reputation as the place to be and have_ droves _of kids enrolling.”

Bucky grimaced. “I picked this place cause it _wasn’t _huge,” he groaned. 

“Like your privacy?” Clint asked.

“Don’t like crowds. They…” Bucky shook his head. “They make me uneasy. Too much noise.”

“I uh, kinda know how that is,” Clint said quietly. He shifted nervously, then seemed to come to a decision, reaching up to tuck his long hair back behind his ears. “I keep my hair long mostly to hide these.”

Bucky blinked, then took a closer look. Clint wore something purple over his ear and – and he tucked the hair on the other side back to reveal the same thing.

“Not… headphones?” Bucky hazarded.

Clint shook his head, hair falling over his ears once more. “No,” he smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes and oh, god, that hurt like a sucker punch to Bucky’s gut. “Lost a chunk of hearing when I was a kid – been steadily getting worse ever since. Mostly gone now. These are great and all, but there are limits to what they can do. Crowded places, noisy ones? It can be too much. I get it might not be the same reasons for you but… I understand the sentiment.”

He looked away and Bucky felt his heart squeeze. He stared at Clint a long time, saw how uncomfortable it made him to talk about his own disability and it… Bucky felt honored that Clint would open up to him like that, letting Bucky in, letting him know he wasn’t alone.

It almost felt like a trade, Clint telling him about his aids after finding out about Bucky’s arm.

“Thank you,” Bucky said, his voice a little rougher with emotion than he intended. “It means a lot that, that you told me. I get the feeling you don’t talk to people about that very often.”

Clint looked up, then shrugged, one hand clutching his arm, his fingers flexing. “You’d be right. I just figured, fair’s fair.”

“You didn’t owe me anything, Clint,” Bucky said. “If anything – “

“No, it’s fine. I wanted to tell you,” Clint said. “It’s just… hard.”

The smile on Clint’s face was brittle, his eyes a little glazed, not quite looking through Bucky but not seeing him either. Whatever the story there, Bucky didn’t think it was a good one. He swallowed, trying to figure out what he could do or say that wouldn’t be overstepping any sort of boundaries.

“I get it – putting it out there is, it makes you vulnerable, even to those who care about you, who won’t think anything different or less of you,” Bucky said, thinking of Becca and Steve and Sam.

“Yeah,” Clint said, his head perking up. “Yeah, I think you do.” The smile brightened till it was the warm, friendly one Bucky had gotten used to seeing and he nearly felt his mind melting in response.

He wasn’t sure how he left the range with his brains intact, but it had been one of his better days in over a week – and it was thanks to Clint Barton, an adorable mess.

And maybe Stark for pushing him out of his apartment in the first place, but Bucky didn’t have to admit that to anyone – least of all Stark.

He’d just gloat unbearably and really, who wanted to deal with _that?_


	3. Shattered Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint's looking forward to Bucky's promised return to the cafe, when someone else shows up instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up - I'm adding a few tags for self harm and past abuse.
> 
> i don't plan to get graphic but they WILL be in the story and I'm not yet sure how things will play out (possibly just obliquely, possibly just discussion) as I'm playing it by ear.
> 
> P.S. Sorry it took so long for a new chapter - i felt like it was at a good holding point and i had a bunch of other projects and deadlines to work on as well...
> 
> this fills a square for the NEW Clint barton Bingo card i have - Broken

Bucky didn’t come in that night. Clint tried not to feel disappointed. He had other classes. He had admitted to Clint that he might find it hard to come in to the café after everything that had happened. It had been a long and – unless Clint missed his guess – emotionally charged day.

Whatever Bucky was dealing with, whatever reason he needed a hand from Tony, it hadn’t been good. Any idiot could see that. What happened at the café had triggered him, and while Clint had a fairly good idea, in general, he didn’t _know _what was going on in Bucky’s head, or how hard it was to deal with.

And the on top of all _that, _Bucky’d had his secret outed to Clint instead of on _his _terms and for a split second, Clint had almost done the stupidest thing he could have done – ask about it.

Clint was absolutely sure that Bucky had noticed. Had even expected it and Clint – Clint should _know _better. He knew what it was like not to want to discuss the particulars of your disability, or why he was a mess.

Hell, he’d never told _anyone. _

Nat and Phil had been around when Clint was a fucking mess, but he’d never _told _anyone. It was too personal, too much.

So he shouldn’t be surprised Bucky hadn’t made it that night. It had been a long day, probably a bit much.

It still made Clint sad enough that he didn’t even crack open his book. In fact, he hadn’t wanted to touch it since the night that bigot had come in, and it still sat alone under the register, untouched unless it was in someone’s way.

Dare or no dare, what was the point if there wasn’t a book club? It was only Bucky’s help that had gotten him this far, he couldn’t do it without him, despite what Bucky had said.

That didn’t keep his heart from skipping a beat every time the bell rang and he looked up. Didn’t stop him from being hopeful even as each night dragged onward with no Bucky in sight. _Let it go,_ Clint, he thought to himself, even as his head shot up over the top of the counter when the bell chimed yet again.

“Welcome to Hit the Spot!” he said with all the cheer he could muster and then faltered when his head cleared the counter and he came face to face with his brother.

Clint hadn’t seen Barney in years, since the circus had made it clear Clint was no longer welcome and Clint had been left to his own devices with the clothes on his back, his bow (there’d been no way he was leaving that behind, even if they _had _tried to keep it) and a pocketful of a pitiful amount of cash.

As expected, the cash hadn’t lasted long and the bow hadn’t done him any good. He’d tried doing performances, with a hat out for cash, but it turned out you needed permits for that kind of thing. What the hell?

Then the weather changed and things got even harder and Clint had fallen back on pickpocketing and… other less than savory things (though at least he was hurting no one other than himself). A bad encounter had left him in the hospital, battered, bruised and wary and thinking, what was the point of it all? It was Phil that had given him shelter, then pointed him at Nat, and Clint would forever be grateful for the two of them for helping him through a dark part of his life.

For being more family to him that Barney had been, in the end.

And here Barney was, as if he hadn’t been one of the ones that had kicked him to the curb, leaving him to die of starvation and exposure.

“Hey little brother,” Barney said, that easy grin on his face, the one he usually used on marks, the one that had taken Clint far too long to be wary of.

Clint didn’t like that it was now aimed at him any more than he’d liked it back when he’d realized that Barney was manipulating him. He crossed his arms over his chest. “What do you want?”

“What, not even a word of welcome? It’s been a while,” Barney said, leaning one arm and a hip on the counter.

“Yeah? And whose fault was that?” Clint forced his voice to be steady, but it was harder than he’d expected, even after all this time and distance. Seeing Barney was bring back too many memories he’d rather forget.

“Hey, you think I had any say over that?” Barney said, but despite the years between them, Clint could see the twitch, the tell that said Barney was lying.

“What. Do. You. Want.” Clint growled the words, his hands clenched in fists behind the counter where Barney couldn’t see. God, he hoped that…

“Come back to the circus,” Barney said, looking at Clint out of the corner of his eye as he pretended Clint’s answer didn’t matter, as he pretended to look around the little coffee shop. “We got something big coming up.”

Clint’s fists began to shake, trembles traveling up his arms. He shook his head, not even seeing Barney anymore, but the abuse he’d received at the hands of the Swordmaster and Trick Shot and some of the others. Once upon a time, he’d been grateful for them taking him and Barney in and under their wing, for not being as cruel as their parents or their foster parents, but time away from the circus had only taught Clint what it was like _not_ to live with that sort of thing - abuse and fear - as part of his everyday life.

He’d gotten _used_ to not expecting blows and bruises for the smallest infractions. Why… how… Barney couldn’t possibly expect that Clint would willingly put himself back under their thumbs? Not when he’d had a chance at freedom and had managed to pull himself together, at least a little.

“No.” Clint was proud of himself, in the face of the flood of memories and emotions they brought with them, that he’d managed to get the word out, that it was unwavering, strong.

Barney’s face turned toward him slowly, his body swiveling with it, both arms now leaning on the counter as he stared Clint straight in the eye. “No?” he asked incredulously. “What do you mean, no?”

“I mean,” Clint swallowed. “Just that.”

“What happened to you?” Barney sneered. “Have you gone fucking soft? You like working for minimum wage, barely able to afford to eat? We can pay you better than that and you get to perform again.”

“Yeah, how come I don’t believe there isn’t more to things than that? How come I remember the circus hitting lean times and turning to crime? Of stealing and worse going on behind the scenes? Have you forgotten why I was turned out?” Clint snapped, fear and anger coloring his words.

“You’re lucky they didn’t kill you. You know that? It took everything I had to make sure they didn’t,” Barney snarled back, jabbing his hand towards Clint.

“Somehow, that doesn’t make your offer any more appealing,” Clint said.

“Come back,” Barney insisted.

“No,” Clint said. “Now, get the fuck out of here, and don’t you ever come back here again, or make fun of my livelihood. I worked hard to get where I’m at, you don’t get to come here and take it away from me. Again.”

“But I’m a paying customer, you can’t just – “

“I can and have, now go!” Clint shouted.

“You’ll regret this, Clint,” Barney hissed. “We’re going places, and you could have gone with us.” He stormed out of the shop, the door opening in front of him like magic and Clint stared after him, in shock. His body still trembled and he was simply trying to _breathe._

It had been years, and yet, it hadn’t taken much more than the raised voice of his brother and a reminder of his past for Clint to want to curl up in a dark corner, to hide away from the world. He struggled to take a deep breath, then another. He almost had it under control, enough to greet the newest customer as they walked in, giddy, almost hysterical relief sweeping through him when he saw it was Bucky.

Maybe he could pretend nothing had happened, go back to life as usual.

Barney’s visit didn’t have to mean a thing. Right?

* * *

Bucky stood outside Hit the Spot, breathing hard. It had taken him far too long to travel the distance between his apartment and the café, each step dragging with dread, fought only by his desire to see Clint again and his promise.

Barnes’s didn’t break their promises.

He pushed forward, snagging the door and pulling it open and had to pause, just barely stepping out of the way of the tall, red haired man storming out of the coffee shop. He glared at Bucky – the sort of glare you’d get from a stranger who was taking something out on someone else, the sort he used to be able to ignore - but it still left Bucky a little shaky.

He took a calming breath, then firmly pushed himself forward. The bell dinged a second time as the door closed behind him and Clint, who had been strangely motionless, looked up from the counter with a brittle smile. “Welcome, what can I – _Bucky_…”

The last word was said on a soft exhale, the brittle smile turning real and warm and oh… that was something, knowing he had such an affect like that on Clint. And feeling the effect of that smile and knowing it was for _him_. Like Bucky was something special.

He hadn’t felt special in a long time. Just broken.

“Hey,” Bucky said softly back, stepping up to the counter. But despite the sudden, warm smile, Clint still looked… off and Bucky had to refrain from frowning, afraid it would be misinterpreted. “You okay?”

Clint’s warm smile went too bright, like he was forcing it, his eyes avoiding Bucky’s. “Oh, yeah. I’m… I’m good. Long night, yeah? Just a little tired I guess. What kind of day is it? Coffee or Cocoa?”

“Coffee, please,” Bucky said, watching Clint carefully.

“Sure thing,” Clint said with a jerky nod, turning to grab one of the mugs – Bucky’s usual, he noted, and he wondered if that was on purpose, and it made his stomach flip with butterflies he hadn’t felt in far too long. Clint’s hands fumbled the whole way through making Bucky’s coffee, clumsy and trembling and Bucky was alarmed. It was all too clear that Clint was upset, but what was wrong?

A flash of reddish brown hair, that tall man angrily leaving the shop, came suddenly to mind. Had they had an altercation? Bucky’s eyes narrowed as they took in all of Clint but there was no sign of anything physical, no visible hurts. Still, something had happened. The usual sure, graceful movements of Clint were gone and his shoulders were hunched in a way Bucky had never seen before. Then the mug slipped and hit the floor, shattering into pieces and Clint froze, staring down at in shock.

So did Bucky.

Then it hit him that the coffee was scalding hot and Clint had to have gotten splashed with it, and before he was finished realizing it, Bucky was shoving himself around the counter and reaching for Clint.

“Shit, Clint, you all right?”

Clint flinched and dropped to the floor, hands starting to pick up the ceramic shards.

“Fine. I’m fine. Sorry, just… give me a minute, sorry, sorry…”

Bucky drew back, for just a second, something in the words giving him pause. There was… nothing wrong with what Clint was saying, per se. Anyone would apologize for breaking something but there was a desperate quality to Clint’s movements, to his voice, that chilled Bucky’s bones.

Clint was still grasping at the shards and then a bloom of blood, just a drop, appearing on his skin, galvanized Bucky into motion.

“Stop, Clint! You’re gonna hurt yourself!” Bucky said, even as he reached for Clint to still his hands.

At Bucky’s touch, Clint flinched again, bad enough that he fell back from his crouch onto his ass, back hitting the wall. Bucky sucked in a breath and his chest hurt.

Clint’s eyes looked straight ahead at Bucky but didn’t see him - _Fuck_, but Bucky was well acquainted with looks like that, just usually from the other side of things – and Clint’s shaking had gotten worse, the drop of blood expanding and pooling along his hand, dripping to the floor. 

Eyes wide, Bucky watched in horror as Clint raised his hand with a shaky breath. He carded it through his hair, blood tinging the blonde hairs and Bucky winced. That much blood – and so quickly, too – Clint had cut _deep._

“Jesus, sweetheart,” Bucky choked. “Please, stop. Clint, stop... you’re _bleeding.”_

Clint took his hand away from his head and stared at it blankly. Then blinked. His voice was dull and dazed when he finally spoke. “Nah, it’s, it’s fine. I’ll just slap a Band-Aid on it and I’ll be all good.”

“A Band-Aid?” Bucky asked incredulously. “You should go to the hospital. I think you need stitches.” Screw that, he _knew_ Clint needed stitches.

Clint shook his head hard, still out of it. “No, I can’t close the shop. I’m the only one here, Buck.” He looked at Bucky pleadingly, a hint of fear in his eyes that made Bucky want to find that guy and punch him.

It startled him. He hadn’t had an urge like that in a long time.

Mrs. Parker’s voice called suddenly from over the counter and they both jumped; Bucky in surprise, Clint almost like he was trying to merge with the wall behind him. There’d been nobody in the coffee shop when he’d first got there, so Bucky must have been so absorbed in Clint that he never heard the door opening and the bell dinging. Obviously, neither had Clint.

“Goodness! Is Clint all right?”

“Yes,” Clint insisted, even though he was clearly still shaking. His eyes fell on the shattered remains of the mug. “Awww… Bucky, I broke your mug,” he said.

And immediately burst into tears, choked breaths of strangled sobs – as if crying were something he’d learned to hide - filled with muffled apologies.

“No,” Bucky answered Mrs. Parker with a sigh, casting about for a first aid kit, at least get the bleeding stopped so he could calm Clint down and figure out where to go from there.

“I’ll go flip the sign,” she said, her voice soft.

“Thanks, Mrs. Parker,” Bucky said. He finally located the first aid kit and with Mrs. Parker’s help, they finally coaxed Clint off the ground and over to a table. Mrs. Parker found a broom and dustpan and swept up the broken mug while Bucky did his best. It really did need stitches, but failing that, he cleaned and bound the wound as carefully and tightly as he could, wishing he at least had some superglue for a temporary fix.

“Clint, what’s going on?” Bucky asked gently when he finished.

Shaking his head, Clint didn’t answer, staring down at where Bucky’s hand was cradling his.

“The man who stormed out, who was he? Was he trying to start shit? Cause I’ll go find him and punch him for you, if you want,” Bucky swore, voicing the urge that had hit him earlier and really hadn’t gone away. Every moment watching Clint like this was heartbreaking. Clint didn’t deserve it.

That seemed to break Clint out of his daze. “What? But…” he shook his head, his good hand coming up to cover Bucky’s where it still held Clint’s injured one. It was only then that Bucky noticed his own hand was trembling. Clint finally looked up and _saw _Bucky. He smiled sadly, but gratefully.

“No, he’s gone and he’s not coming back,” Clint’s voice was hoarse, but clear. “But thanks. _Thank you_. I know that… that you don’t… It just, this, your offer, it really means a lot.”

“I mean it, Clint,” Bucky insisted, despite the shaking of his traitorous hands.

“I know,” Clint whispered, eyes shining as he looked up at Bucky.

Two plunks hit the table and they startled. Clint’s flinch, Bucky was glad to see, wasn’t as pronounced as it had been only moments earlier. Their eyes were drawn simultaneously to the mugs that Mrs. Parker had placed there.

“You boys both had a scare, _again_,” she said, dropping into a seat between them, a third mug appearing as if from midair. “The two of you, I swear, Clint especially. Such trouble magnets. Go on, it’s nothing fancy. Just some tea. I know my way around a teabag and some hot water. I promise I didn’t go messing with your fancy machines.”

They sat in silence, sipping at their tea, Bucky unable to keep his eyes from drifting down to Clint’s bandaged hand, scanning worriedly for any trace of blood seeping through. The tea helped, soothing away some of his nerves.

He didn’t let go of Clint’s hand, though, unable to lose the contact, the reassurance that Clint was okay.

They were nearly done when there was a sudden, but insistent knock on the glass door.

* * *

Clint groaned when he turned and saw Phil peering through the glass.

“Better let him in,” he muttered, going to stand. He didn’t remember locking up, but he must have if Phil was standing on the outside waiting to be let in.

“No, you boys just stay right there,” Mrs. Parker said, motioning at Phil to come in. “I didn’t actually lock the door, dear. I don’t have the keys.”

“Oh, yeah,” Clint said, vaguely remembering now that she’d flipped the sign. Dammit, he felt more than a little dumb. As usual. Was everything in the universe conspiring to make him feel like an idiot lately?

The door opened, the bell chimed and Clint winced a little, even though he already knew who was on the other side of that bell. Bucky’s thumb rubbed soothingly along what skin was left to peek out of his bandages and Clint gave him a weak smile. That was twice this week that the bell had heralded something unpleasant. Not that he didn’t deal with other unpleasantness during his shifts, but these were particularly impactful.

Phil dragged a chair over and sat calmly. “Everything okay in here? Couldn’t help but notice the closed sign. I thought this place never closed.”

“All good,” Clint said. Bucky looked at him sharply but it was Phil’s eyes that bored through him, making Clint shift uncomfortably in his seat. In fact, his eyes never even so much as flickered towards Bucky and Clint’s hands, still sitting on the table, but Clint knew Phil noticed _everything. _

It was what made him such a good cop. What had urged him to take a chance on Clint all those years ago.

“Is that so,” Phil stated. It wasn’t a question and Clint felt small under his gaze. “That why the sign’s been flipped, your hand is bandaged and the two of you are shaking and _you_ won’t look me in the eye?”

“It’s nothing,” Clint insisted mulishly.

“It’s not nothing,” Bucky said. “You need stitches, Clint.”

Phil sighed and moved, finally, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Clint’s never liked hospitals. And he takes his duties seriously. Let me guess, doesn’t want to close the shop and go cause he’s the only one here?”

Bucky nodded mutely. Clint’s stomach twisted.

“It’s just a scratch. I’ve done - er,” Clint swallowed and looked away. He didn’t want to remind Phil of that one time, but from the way Phil was looking at him, all concerned, he was already too late. But Bucky… Bucky didn’t need to know. “It was an accident, I swear.”

Phil raised his eyebrow but didn’t challenge Clint, choosing – apparently – to take him at his word. Clint’s shoulders sagged in relief.

“It really was an accident, sir,” Bucky sprung to his defense, even though he had no clue, even though it wasn’t needed, and it just made Clint like him all that much more.

“It’s all right, son,” Phil said, “I believe you.” He leaned forward, catching Clint’s eye. “But if you need stitches, we can call Natasha.”

Clint groaned again, closing his eyes. “Noooo, Phil, I don’t wanna bother her for something so unimportant.”

“You’re not unimportant, sweetheart,” Bucky said softly. Clint’s eyes popped open. He stared at Bucky, jaw dropping. Bucky’s eyes widened. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

Bucky’s face was flushed and he tried to pull his hand away, but Clint’s good hand tightened around Bucky’s where it still curled around Clint’s injured one and Bucky froze, apparently unwilling to risk injuring Clint further.

They stared at each other for long moments, both of them turning pink in the cheeks.

Phil cleared his throat, breaking the sudden tension. “Clint, if you don’t call her, I will,” he said, disapproval clear in his voice. “And how do you think Nat will feel if she knows you avoided it?”

Clint sighed. “Fine, I’ll call her.”

“And go to the hospital,” Phil pushed.

Clint pursed his lips together and stared down at the table. He’d started to shake again and he cursed himself for being so weak.

“Hey, I’ll go with you, okay?” Bucky said. “If it’ll help?”

Thinking about it, he searched Bucky’s face for any clues and finally nodded. “It… It might,” Clint admitted, flushing a bit more.

Behind Phil’s stoic face, he knew he was rolling his eyes. Dammit. Clint finally let go of Bucky and dug out his phone. In seconds, the phone was ringing and Nat’s unusually alert voice answered. After a quick conversation where Clint tried to downplay the seriousness of him having to leave for the hospital, she hung up with a, “I’m on my way.”

Nat didn’t live far, so she was there inside of five minutes, looking as fresh as a daisy and for all the world like she hadn’t been woken at ass o’clock in the morning. In fact, Clint could count the number of times she’d looked not so put together on one finger.

She hurried in, a mix of concern and disapproval on her face as she crossed the shop and came to a stop beside them. By then, Mrs. Parker had settled herself in another part of the shop with her tea and her book, giving them all what privacy she could while still keeping an eye on them all.

Mrs. Parker had always given him a somewhat motherly vibe, to be honest.

Nat eyed Clint critically, from the top of his head to his feet, with a lingering look at his bandaged hand, and how Bucky was _still _holding it carefully. Clint would have blushed, but he was feeling too emotionally wrung out to even be embarrassed at this point.

“I broke a mug,” Clint blurted.

She sighed, dropping into the seat that Mrs. Parker had vacated when Phil had arrived. “Idiot. I don’t care about the mug. Are you all right?”

He nodded miserably, knowing she’d see right through him. She brushed his hair back from his face and smiled at him sadly. “All right, I’ll let it go for now. You just go and get your hand looked at. We can talk later, if you’re feeling up to it.”

Making a face – cause as much as he trusted Nat, talking was the _last _thing he wanted to do right now – Clint nodded again.

“Well, if that’s settled,” Phil said, standing up and scooting his chair back under the table. “I’ll drive.”


End file.
